Objects May Be Closer Than They Appear
by InkyTrue
Summary: JJ Beale just won. Or did he?


After the final humiliation of JJ Beale, Mark dutifully followed Sarah and Hardcastle into the house. The diminutive woman took a left into the kitchen while Mark continued to follow Hardcastle into the den. Or what was left of it. What a mess. The place looked like a dusty hurricane had hit. There was shattered glass and splintered wood covering at least half of the floor and the rest looked like it had been blasted with white powder from all the broken dry wall. Mark pointed out the Judge's desk, "Well, at least HQ is ok," he quipped, trying to put a good spin on it. The Judge muttered something, but suddenly grabbed Mark's outstretched arm, pulling it toward him. "Hey, hey!" the Judge muttered while he pulled up his parole's jacket sleeve. "Hey, what?" Mark asked protectively trying to pull his arm back. "What's this? You gotta get that looked at." Mark looked down and for the first time noticed that his arm had a long cut running from his elbow toward his wrist. "Nah's, okay. Don't really feel it." Mark said pulling it back. "Sarah," the Judge called. She appeared almost like magic at the top of the den stairs. "Mark's hurt." Mark? That was a first. But before "Mark" could digest that, Sarah had grabbed the offending limb and inspected it. "Need's a real dressing, I'll get the first aid kit." "Nah, Nah," Mark said backing up and taking his arm with him. "It's either that or the hospital, kid," the Judge said in his most level tone. "What's it's gonna be?" Mark knew that tone and the stone dead look in the Judge's eye. He shrugged. "Okay, Sarah." Sarah harrumphed and he followed her out glumly.

"You're going to have to wash it." she stated plainly. Mark nodded and headed for the kitchen sink. "Not in here." she said, exasperated. "I don't need your blood all over my clean vegetables. In the hall bath, if you please." Mark sighed extra loudly, but headed out down the front hall. He could hear Hardcase already making calls. "That's right. Get me the Warden. I _know_ he's busy. _I'm_ what he's being busy about. Yes, I'll hold!" Hardcase barked into the phone. Mark had to smile. He certainly had a way with people.

After Mark thoroughly cleaned the wound to even Sarah's standards, he carefully dried his hands as not to get blood on the guest towels. As he walked back he could hear more of the one-sided conversation in the den. "I know she is and that's why I'm calling. What do you mean he says I have no jurisdiction?! I'm the one who called her in…" Mark cocked his head, but Sarah was at the kitchen entrance, giving him a hard stare. He produced the cleaned wound as an answer. She harrumphed again and he followed her into the kitchen.

"Sit down." Mark did as he was told. While he was gone she had started dinner and delightful smells were coming from the stove. She followed his gaze. "Nothing fancy. Didn't have time. Just some chicken and vegetables." He nodded. But he couldn't believe that this woman, who was kidnapped and held at gunpoint in her own home not twenty minutes ago, was making dinner for them. And that the Judge, fresh out of the gunfight, was already clearing up the bureaucratic debris. He shook his head. "Hold still, " she commanded. He did, but then winced when she drenched the wound in rubbing alcohol. "It only stings for a minute and it's important for it to heal properly." He had the urge to answer yes ma'am, but stayed silent as the efficient woman went to work.

As the aroma from the stove grew stronger and the muffled male voice droned on down the hall, McCormick had a funny feeling. Like a flashback to something that never happened. Or did, but in some alternate universe. He couldn't quite put his finger on it when Sarah, holding his hand firmly, but gently, blew on his skin to evaporate the alcohol. Like a shock, Mark was transported home. New Jersey. A skinned elbow. His father on the phone and his mother…his mother… He inadvertently jerked his hand away. Sarah looked at him sharply. Sheepishly, he offered it up again. "Sorry, Sarah." he muttered. "S'alright. Just about done." She gently wrapped it up in a bandage and then wrapped some tape around it to hold it all together. When she finished, Mark had to admit it was a fine job. "Thanks, Sarah." he said sincerely. "Welcome." she said in her simple short way as she was already repacking the kit and putting it away. "Go tell his Honor that dinner will be ready in 15 minutes." Mark nodded and made his way back to the den.

"That's what I've been saying. Donna May McCabe is vital to our case as an eye witness! The fact that she was with Beale means nothing. He was an armed man, who knows what he forced her to do? And since no one is a fan of the Warden at Strykerville, I want her extradited down to LA toot suite. Got it? Now, call Lt. Frank Harper. Harper! LAPD. He'll take care of all the details. Tell him Judge Milton C. Hardcastle told _you_ to call _him_. That's right. She's to be treated like a witness, not a prisoner. Got it? Good!" He crashed the phone down in the cradle and drew a hand over his face with a sigh. McCormick paused as he realized he had a front row seat at witnessing what a persuasive lawyer Harcastle must have been. He shook his head and then cleared his throat. The Judge swung around and took in his arm. "Oh, hey. Looks okay." "Yeah, I'll live." McCormick tried to crack wise, but it fell a little flat. "You fixing things for Donna? That sounds like some heavy strings you're pulling, Judge." The Judge rolled his eyes. "I do not pull strings, McCormick. Ms. McCabe is a star witness to JJ's little armed pageant. And it wouldn't suit justice if she's wasting away behind bars when she can help put Beale behind them instead." Mark held up his hands in innocence. "Hey, you don't have to convince me, Kemosabe." "Well…" the Judge trailed off, uncertain. Mark felt a change of subject was in order. "Sarah told me to tell you dinner's in fifteen." "Ok, ok, tell her I'll be right there." He picked up the phone and McCormick gave him a sly look. But the Judge waved him off and in sotto voce added, "Go help her, she's been through a lot." McCormick nodded and gave one last look behind him as he heard the Judge bellow into the phone. "Hey, Frank? Yeah, it's Milt. Gotta favor to ask…"

He smiled as he made his way back into the kitchen. Who woulda guessed? Hardcastle was making sure runaway Donna May McCabe would make it through all right. What did _he_ owe _her_? Hell, even Mark, who defended her, forgot her as promptly as the bullets started to fly. But not the Judge. Mark stood transfixed in the hallway, looking down at his cleanly dressed wound and enjoying the comforting smell of dinner on the stove. Suddenly a conversation from a month ago floated up in front of him like the ghost of Jacob Marley. The Judge had come down to his parole officer's office when he thought Mark had broken parole, presumably to throw him back in jail. But now Mark realized, that didn't really make any sense. Why would the Judge come down there personally? And without any boys in blue to escort him back to the house of many doors? Perhaps he was arriving to keep Mark _out_ , to persuasively argue and pull strings… That same gruff voice muffled in the den echoed inside his head. "Whether you believe it or not, I'm looking after you!" Mark shook his head, but he was beginning to believe.


End file.
